Adele Cecil: This anagram, "around eve" — I've tried and I've tried, but all I can come up with is "Endeavour". And no-one's called Endeavour, surely?

Morse: I told you — my mother was a Quaker, and Quakers sometimes call their children names like 'Hope', and 'Patience'. My father was obsessed with Captain Cook, and his ship was called Endeavour. Why aren't you both laughing?

Lewis: You poor sod!

Adele Cecil: I'm not calling you "Endeavour".

Lewis: Call him "Sir". He likes that.

Adele Cecil: Oh, no, no,— I'll stick to "Morse", like everyone else.

Morse:[Raises his glass of beer.] Cheers!

Morse: That which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Morse: Better off than Harry Repp I suppose. At least I'll have a retirement, bird watching, Wagner. You know you really should persevere with Wagner Lewis. It's about important things, life and death, regret.

Lewis: Cheer up Sir, It's a lovely evening. Look at that sunset!

Morse: Ensanguining the skies. How heavily it dies. Into the west away; Past touch and sight and sound. Not further to be found, how hopeless under ground. Falls the remorseful day. (A. E. Housman(May) )